Devil in Pinstripes

T
he sound of soft droplets of water skipping on the floor and a dim ray of light battling to emerge through the tiny crack between the door and the marble flooring were the only signs of activity in an otherwise dark room. Thick peach-coloured curtains drawn to cover every inch of the single four feet by four feet window valiantly defended the large bedroom from letting the morning sun have a peep into it.

On one side of the room was a bed – too small to be called a double bed and too large to be a single cot. It was custom designed to fit into the room. On the other side, at an arm’s length from the bed, was a small table, on which lay an antiquated Intel 486 computer. To the right of the table was a wooden cupboard – the ones made of cheap particle board. One of the doors of the cupboard doubled up as a full length mirror. A shoe rack added to the muddle in an already overcrowded room. As if the clutter created by the disorganised furniture was not enough, there seemed to be more pairs of footwear lying around the shoe rack than inside, akin to the dustbins on the streets of Chennai, which usually had more garbage strewn all around them than within. A large poster of Sachin Tendulkar adorned the wall. Around it were a few small newspaper cuttings, all singing praises about ‘Sachin – The Master!’. It sure did appear to be the room of a die-hard Tendulkar fan.

A couple of trousers, a tattered pair of denims and few jazzy coloured tees hung from a cane wood clothes’ stand clumsily placed in one corner of the room. A few books lay strewn on the small bedside table. They hadn’t been touched for weeks now – confirmed by the fine layer of dust which had settled itself on the covers. A Chinese-made digital clock sat dangerously on the tip of the bedside table. The hands indicated 7.12 a.m. It seemed to be working. Only the colour on the snooze button appeared to have worn off faster than the other buttons.

‘Enter at your own risk’ were the words splashed on a large poster strategically stuck on the wall that was bang opposite the main door. It was the first thing anyone entering the room would notice. The messy room could easily be identified with a typical, brash teenager’s room, where the only way to get rid of junk was to pile on more junk on top of the existing lot, effectively making it disappear from the line of sight.

One could be forgiven for assuming such was the case, had one not sighted a neat looking folder lying next to the computer screen. It was a blue coloured file. Lying on its right, face up, was a brown envelope which had the words ‘New York International Bank’, printed in bold, on the bottom left corner.

He walked out of the bathroom, fresh from a shower. A few droplets of water drained off him onto the floor, forming a small puddle. Humming a Bachchan hit, he seemed to be in high spirits. After furiously wiping his hands on the towel that he had loosely wrapped around his waist, he carefully picked the envelope and held it up. Stuck on the envelope was a white label which had the name, ‘AMIT SHARMA’—his name—written in capitals. His glance floated from the centre of the envelope to the top. Printed there were two very important words. Though in a smaller font, they were about to add enormous meaning to his life. Those were the words he had spent his life waiting for. He had struggled through his college days, waiting to see that very phrase. The two words
–
‘Appointment Letter’ written across the envelope were going to change Amit’s life forever, or so he felt that day. At that very instant, the door opened and Chanda walked in.

‘Come. Have your breakfast.’

This sudden intrusion brought Amit back from the thoughts he was engrossed in. His thoughts had taken him back in time—almost thirteen years ago. He was about to join New York International Bank. Just out of IIM Bangalore, as fresh as a muffin just out of an oven, a starry-eyed Amit’s dream was about to come true. A bollywood-like flashback darted across the screen of his mind – the proud moment when he had walked out of the shower and held up his appointment letter – a letter from New York International Bank. Hadn’t he chosen this bank over a career in consultancy with Accenture? Acting against advice from friends, he had made his own independent choice, completely taken in by the flamboyant pitch made by Aditya Bhatnagar during the bank’s pre-placement talk. There was not even an iota of doubt in his mind – he was convinced that he was making the right decision. Chanda’s entry into the room had interrupted his cherished dream sequence.

Today, on the breakfast table, thirteen years later, he appeared contented. A satisfied look radiated from his face. ‘Idiots,’ he said to himself as he thought about his batchmates telling him that he was making a mistake. Had he listened to them, he would not be where he was. The stance that he had taken then seemed vindicated today. He was probably the only guy from his batch who had stuck to his first job for thirteen long years. Did he ever feel the need to move from New York International Bank and look for options outside? No way!

‘Thank you, God,’ he murmured as he lifted his right hand and dug into the dripping aloo paranthas that Chanda had just placed in front of him. Instinctively, he reached out to the butter box for an extra helping. A downward glance brought his growing belly into focus and alongside his hands beat a hasty retreat. He had been putting on a fair amount of weight these days. Hectic travelling schedules and a sedentary lifestyle were the culprits, or so he rationalised. Chanda had been trying to push him to join the local Gold’s Gym, but after living for more than a decade with him, she didn’t need to be told—Amit would only do something if he wanted to. He was a curious mix of an elephant and a panther. An elephant when something was forced on him—would never move, and a panther when he was convinced about the need to act. If he believed in something, there couldn’t be anyone to match his skill and pace in execution.

‘It’s okay. You don’t need to deprive yourself,’ said Chanda. She had caught him in the act. Amit just smiled and continued enjoying the
paranthas
. It was rare for them to enjoy a smile together these days.

‘Ding-dong,’ the ring of the doorbell spoiled an otherwise peaceful breakfast.

‘Who could it be? So early in the morning?’ asked Chanda. None of the maids came in so early. A mere shrug of the shoulders was the only response that could be elicited from the man who chose to ignore the fact that the door bell actually rang! He was too lazy to get up and open the door himself. ‘What’s chivalry between man and wife?’ he said to himself as Chanda got up to open the door. In any case Amit was too engrossed in his paranthas and
The Economic Times
to even volunteer to get up and respond to the door bell. He could hear Chanda open the door and could sense her talking to someone. Had he stretched his neck backwards, from where he was sitting in the dining room, he could have seen the main door. But, he didn’t bother. ‘She is smart enough to manage,’ he said to himself as he noisily turned a page and moved away from the stock market section. The market had tanked by 346 points the previous day. For three days in a row, the Sensex was down by over 200 points. Today was the fourth day and things didn’t seem to be looking up.

‘Someone called Rakesh Srivastava. Says he knows you and wants to meet you immediately,’ said Chanda as she returned.

‘Who?’

‘Rakesh Srivastava.’

‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t know. Says he wants to meet you and it’s urgent.’

Amit gave a quizzical look. The name did not ring a bell. He did not know anyone by this name. ‘Hmmmm…’ he sighed. Getting up was unavoidable now. He wiped his hands on the towel that Chanda had left on her chair and walked towards the living room. As he entered, he could see the back of Rakesh Srivastava. The latter would have been close to six feet tall and of a stout build. The denim jeans and a crumpled T-shirt, made Amit realise that Rakesh was not someone from his bank. A rugged leather jacket hung between his folded arms. Muscular from every angle, the veins on his arms seemed to be ready to pop out. His hair was cut really short. From where he was, Amit could only see the contours that lay behind the salt and pepper curly hair.

‘Mr Srivastava,’ he called out as he held out his hand for a handshake. ‘Amit Sharma,’ he said as Rakesh turned to face Amit. The formally attired Amit looked overdressed in front of Rakesh. The striped blue shirt, tie and coat indicated that he was ready to leave for work. Having breakfast with the morning newspaper for company, was the last thing he did before he wore his shoes and left for office.

Rakesh Srivastava looked at him straight in the eye. Amit still couldn’t place him. How could he? They had never met in the past.

‘Amit Sharma,’ he introduced himself again. ‘You wanted to meet me,’ he smiled. It was considered impolite not to smile at a visitor even though the smile was now more of a question than a welcoming gesture.

The smile didn’t get reciprocated, neither was the handshake accepted, and that irritated Amit. ‘How can I help you?’ Amit asked again. ‘Do we know each other?’ he was beginning to wonder.

Rakesh looked at Amit. A look that was unpleasant and left a thousand questions unanswered. His hand went into his jacket pocket and pulled out something, which he held up for Amit to see. It was an ID card.

‘Rakesh Srivastava. Investigation Officer. Crime Branch.’ A long pause followed. Amit couldn’t understand why he was there. He gave him a blank look.

‘Hmm… OKAY,’ he shook his head in acknowledgement. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You will have to come with me to the police station.’ As Rakesh said this, he simultaneously handed him a folded and crumpled piece of paper.

‘What’s this?’ Amit couldn’t understand what was going on. The blank look on his face didn’t go away but a few folds appeared on his normally wrinkle-free forehead. Without taking his eyes off the stern glare from Rakesh, who didn’t volunteer to give any further information, he stretched out his hand, took the piece of paper from Rakesh’s hand and opened it.

After giving it a cursory glance, he glared at Rakesh for a fraction of a second and then almost instantaneously, shifted his glare back to the paper. He saw something which he would never have imagined in the wildest of his dreams . . . something which was about to send his fantasy world crashing down. It was a document that was going to have a far-reaching impact on his professional and more importantly, his personal life. His head started spinning; it was as if someone had pulled the rug from under his feet. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and meandered their way through the creases formed by the worry lines on his forehead, towards the dam formed by his eyebrows. He looked up at Rakesh Srivastava, with questions in his eyes, concern in his look, and worry in his mind.

Written on that sheet of paper, in black ink—it was evident that someone had hurriedly scribbled on it—were three words:
Non-Bailable Arrest Warrant.